Free
by kirstencohen
Summary: A son's adaptation of how his mother is pulled into a downward spiral of alcoholism. ONE SHOT.


**Hope You like.**

She was sent home from work again. It had been becoming more and more frequent. It started with an occasional binge at the holidays but it blew up out of control when dad was sent to jail. She visited him. Told him she loved him more than anything. That she'd wait for him. She never drank when she saw him. He thought everything was okay at home. That his boys were safe. But he had no idea.

My brother told me she was just going through something but I new it was more than that and so did he. My family was being torn apart.

I'd go to school. As normal. I'd come home and do my homework. As normal. I'd say hello to her when she got home and pretend I couldn't smell it. As normal. I don't think she believed that we could. She didn't think vodka smelled. But it did. The stench from her breath was undeniable. She'd question me about my day and I'd smile and go on to tell her but I watched grow more and more impatient. Her hands would shake and when she saw me looking she's scratch her arm or play with her hair to cover it up. I'd be in the kitchen and she would come in but stop dead when she saw me. She'd make excuses to why she was in there but before she could finish I would silently get up from the table and go into the hall. She'd check I wasn't looking before gulping down the clear poison that was eating my family alive. She'd cough and stutter when she took the first mouthful but she went on drinking until she felt she'd had enough. When she finished she'd break down on the kitchen floor and my brother would come in and take her in his arms. He'd wait until she was falling asleep before carrying her to bed. I don't know why he cared so much. It should've been me doing that. Soon she stopped keeping it in the kitchen. I would find it all over the house. In the living room under the couch and behind the T.V. In the bathroom under the basin and between the towels. There'd always be a bottle in her room. Whenever I found it I'd pour it down the sink. It was when she caught me doing that she changed.

She grabbed the bottle from my hands and pushed me out of the way. I stumbled backwards and sunk my arm into the shards of glass she'd made with the bottle when it slipped from her grip. When she saw my arm she began to weep uncontrollably and I noticed that her hand had been shredded from the shattering glass. I took her good hand and sat her on the toilet seat. We were both silent as I cleaned and bandaged her up. She got up silently and lay on her bed crying softly.

From then on she didn't hide it. She stopped caring. She'd come home from work. Her blonde hair sticking out of her untidy ponytail. Everyday she came home she carried a brown paper bag. She wouldn't bother taking it out before screwing off the lid and sucking it down her throat. It still burned but it made her feel better. I'd say nothing. I'd pick her up off the floor and put her to bed. I'd stay with her during the night with a basin in my hand for when she needed to vomit. I'd get her water and wipe away the tears. I'd look after her and say nothing. When my brother questioned her about her problem her expression deadened. When he put his hand on hers she pulled it away, "Stay out of my business," she said simply. His eyes stung and he tried again. This time she lashed out slapping him square across the jaw. I pulled her back but she turned on me instead punching me feebly with all the strength she could muster under the influence of alcohol. I pulled her arms down and held her close to me. My brother looked on in shock. His left cheek was left with an angry red mark in the shape of his mother's hand. She sobbed into my chest and her legs gave way. She was on the floor weeping like a child. All I could do was watch feeling the salty tears run down my face. After a minute she got up and went to her room. It was after that she changed again.

My brother noticed it before I did. The men. He got up for school one morning to find some guy in the kitchen, shirtless, eating cereal from the box. When mom came downstairs she took one look at the guy and then to my brother before dragging the man out of the house, "Don't call me." She said in a low tone. She apologised to us and said it wouldn't happen again. She was true to her word. We never did see a guy again. In the kitchen. Shirtless. Eating cereal from the box. But we both saw them coming in late at night. My mom wouldn't speak. She'd stumble through our front door kissing some dead beat she'd picked up at the bar. She'd throw down her purse and drag him to her room. They'd leave in the in the early hours. We never went to sleep until they did. Just to make sure she was safe. Just in case.

When mom woke up with a black eye my brother and I made sure that guy never came back. It became more of an occurrence. She'd wake up with various bruises and we'd try to stop the guy doing it but they were always too strong. He'd turn on us too but mom would always try to stop him no matter what. She'd get beat up worse for it but it seemed she didn't care. They could hit her but she'd never sit back and watch it happen to her sons. Sometimes she stopped them and sometimes she didn't.

It all started because dad tried to help his mother. She was in pain from the chemo and she wanted go but she needed his help. He counted out just enough medication to let her pass and thanked god she'd be in no more pain. He believed he did the right thing but the court saw differently. His sentence was eleven years. Our sentence was eleven years.

Now my brother and I stand in the cemetery dressed in black. My father by my side. Still in cuffs. I had my arm around him as he kneeled on the grass sobbing for his wife. My brother stood above me not trying to hide the tears in his eyes. Finally it took her. The thing she relied on most had poisoned her for the last time and she was free. I watched her coffin lower into the ground and on the other side my grandfather stood. Next to his wife with the fiery red hair and hardened expression. I felt disgusted to see him so upset about losing the daughter he'd given up on years ago. They'd all abandoned her when she needed them most. Her sister had an excuse. She'd gone back to travelling around Europe for the past six years but everyone else didn't deserve to be there. To mourn the loss of my mother. It didn't seem real until I stood at her grave. Everybody but my brother and my father had gone. I knew she wouldn't be back. The guard took my father away again. He promised he'd be out soon. Two years to go on good behaviour. He said he'd do it for them. I embraced my brother who was still crying openly. I read the gold lettering on the headstone:

"A wife, a daughter and most of all

a mother.

Kirsten Nichol Cohen

02.19.67 – 08.13.04

Now An Angel In Heaven"

I stood with my brother in my arms and cried. I wanted her. I wanted my mom back. "I want her Ryan. I need her, please." I sobbed into his jacket. I could remember how she was before. The way she looked, the way she smelled, the way she held me when the bullies had got me at school. She was always there for me but now she wasn't. She was gone and nobody was gonna help me bring her back. "Seth it's okay. She's free now." Ryan whispered between sobs, "She's free."

That's what I tell myself. That she's free. I know she's up there looking down on me making sure I'm okay. She's my guardian angel and I know it. I just have to keep telling myself it's okay because… she's free.

**Please R&R**


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